All Gone Bye
by Resurrection Six
Summary: The decision to return home hits an intersection that only one emerges from. In a chance encounter at that end lies another road and a fight for society's resurrection.


_I awoke into this nightmare alone…_

Chattering knees that had threatened to give out on him for hours finally buckled, and he tumbled to the leaf-strewn asphalt. A white-hot lightning bolt of pain shot out from his right knee as it met the pavement first, followed quickly by a dull red blur that spread across his field of vision as his head bounced with a sickening thunk.

 _… and now I'm going to leave it the same way…_

The throbbing in his temples, the spear shrieking from his kneecap, and the roaring in his ears turned the blurry world around him from red into a growing darkness.

 _Alone._

Rick Grimes slowly rolled onto his back, surprised at the effort required, and biting into his tongue to keep from shouting out against the pain. His lungs heaved, and the metallic sting of blood in his mouth did little to quench the overpowering thirst that sent him into near-convulsions as he struggled to slow his raspy gasps. Every inch of his body burned and he fought to focus his eyes at the dusty beams of sunlight poking through the canopy of leaves above him. _They say that the mind always quits before the body,_ he thought. _So how in the hell did I get to a place where I'm willing to keep running, but my body has abandoned the effort?_

The dead drew closer.

For days— _how many days? Two days? Three?_ He had run, and the dead had followed—seemingly from everywhere. _How much had I—we—learned over the past few years... only to see a single mistake in a moment bring it all to this?_ The crunching of dead leaves beneath dead feet grew louder, and he rolled enough to reach for the pistol—the Colt Python that he'd worn on his hip every day since the nightmare awoke (save for those days a Savior wore it for him), and found the weapon heavy in his shaking hands. _A wrong turn?_ He didn't have the right words to describe what had taken place, and a pathetic half-groan, half-whine slipped from between clenched teeth framed by cracked and bleeding lips. _A mistake? A moment's complacency met with unforgiving consequences?_

In the moment's preceding the turn, there had been laughter… reminiscence.. camaraderie… friendship… _love._ In the enduring nightmare, through all of the battles, brawls, and bickering, there had still grown a love amongst the group that held them all together despite the circumstances surrounding them.

And then, a scream. A warning. Terror. Surprise—surprising in that anything could still surprise someone from amongst such a reality as could never have been imagined in the years long gone _bye._ The screech of brakes, the surprising loudness of the crash, and the blurred buzzing that accompanied the impact.

Just a moment's complacency… a moment's laughter… a moment in which someone had commented about how one could almost forget about the reality that they had endured—survived—within for so long… and then the reality returned to re-exert its claim on the world.

As he released the cylinder to check the ammunition within the weapon, a phone began ringing beside him.

Not a phone…

 _The phone._

The six brass casings fell to the asphalt with a clinking quickly swallowed by the clamoring ringing of the black rotary telephone. Rick's eyes bulged at the sight and recognition of the device. He tried to loose a shallow scream, but the clattering bell beside him overpowered the weakness trying to squeak forth from his heaving lungs.

 _I got rid of you a long time ago,_ he screamed in his mind. _You can't be here._

But the phone kept ringing, even beginning to down out the sound of the approaching dead.

His eyes burning without the tears to ease the swollen stinging, Rick turned back to the six brass casings scattered on the pavement beside him. All six were spent—empty reminders of painful, desperate decisions rendered since that moment. He blinked, trying to bring even a moment's relief to the growing burning, but every time his eyelids closed or his fingers touched a spent metal casing, he saw another of his friends' faces in that last moment—images that erupted in a lifetime's worth of memories made over the last few years.

 _Daryl… nodding in recognition and acceptance… from an introduction borne in distrust and betrayal._

The phone continued ringing.

Rick examined each casing individually, hoping that just one of them would have fallen unspent. Each one ringed in a faint black residue that rubbed off on his filthy and bloodied fingers. _Just one bullet, please,_ he begged. _Just one more._

 _Answer the phone, Rick._ Lori's voice rang hollowly from the black handset, even as it lay undisturbed on the cradle. _Answer the phone._ He looked down incredulously. It was bad enough that the phone had returned—it was worse that Lori asked for him through an unanswered handset. The moaning grew louder.

 _Is that me? Or the approaching dead?_

 _Answer the phone, Rick. We have a lot to talk about. Answer the phone._ He reached to inspect another shell casing.

His radio sprang to life.

"Dad? Dad, are you there?" Carl's voice rattled from the small speaker. Rick fumbled to retrieve the radio from his belt and remembered that the charge had run out on the device days ago, and his throbbing fingers froze around the body black plastic body.

 _Rick, pick up the phone._

He closed his eyes against the repeated calls from either side of his pain-wracked hips as he rolled slowly on the hot asphalt.

"Dad…. Dad… Dad…".

Carl had closed his eyes tightly… wrenching them shut against the coming end. So many years of showcasing a bravery beyond his years, and when the realization set in for the last time, he had slammed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth with a grim combination of resolution and fear.

In the background of the chattering radio, a baby cried.

Rick rolled back towards the shell casings and counted them one by one, stacking them neatly in a row as he turned each one over, examining every brass cylinder for projectiles that refused to materialize. With all six casings lined up, he returned to the first and began re-inspecting each one again.

The dead grew closer… Lori's voice grew louder… Carl shouted with an increased anxiety.

 _Just one bullet, that's all I need. If I can hear a phone that's not here, with my wife who's long dead on the line, and a radio that's been dead for days now carries voices known to be gone, then I can find a bullet amongst these spent casings. And that bullet that isn't here will be just enough to make the world go dark just long enough so that I don't have to really feel it when it happens…_

 _When the dead find me._

 _When they finally take me._

 _Just one casing,_ he thought. _Just give me one bullet amongst this brass._

Rick Grimes opened his eyes, and found his vision just clear enough to recognize one dark point protruding from the last casing near his fingers. One bullet. The groaning and hissing of the dead grew louder, and he slid the large round into the chamber. Just one bullet. One chance to decide rather than be decided for. As he snapped the cylinder shut, he heard Negan's voice lightly on his ear. He felt the hot, rancid breath on the back of his neck.

"Fuck yeah brother," Negan whispered. "I never thought you had it in you. Get it over with—I've got a great bottle of Scotch waitin' for you over here if you've got the balls to pull the trigger!"

Rick pulled the hammer back and slid the cold barrel up against his temple. His finger caressed the trigger and slowly applied pressure to the cold steel.

 _Rick, pick up the phone._

 _"Dad! Dad!" Carl screamed. The baby's wails grew excruciating louder and clearer._

 _"_ Do it," Negan laughed.

A single gunshot cracked against the warm air.

Rick flinched—his finger hadn't moved.

Another gunshot, followed quickly by another. And then a hailstorm of individual cracks echoed across the forest. Footsteps—close by. Not the shuffling or ambling of the dead, but deliberate. The Colt fell from his weak fingers and bounced across the pavement.

Through blurred eyes, the dark forms came into an unfocused view. They moved rhythmically, purposefully, and took up positions in front of him. _They're alive,_ Rick thought, and then a white skull thrust itself directly before his face, and he stumbled backwards instinctively. The skull slowly focused as much as his exhausted eyes allowed, and he realized that it was not a human skull or the decayed rot of the walking dead—but a painted representation on an angular mask beneath dark goggles and a helmet.

"This one's alive!" Called a deep voice from behind the skull. And, as quickly as it appeared, the skull twisted and a black rifle swung back up into a ready position, quickly barking in single, disciplined shots. Rick rocked backwards on his palms and tried to slide his ass away from the sudden appearance, but two dark arms swung into his field of view, and the entire world catapulted sideways and upside down as he was lifted and slung harshly over someone's shoulders. With absolutely no fight remaining in his body, his head dropped and he watched helplessly as the pavement, leaves, and the Colt pounded away in the opposite direction.

"You gonna be alright," a deep voice panted from beneath him. "Doc'll patch you up in no time!" The voice was tired and labored, but strong. "Hang on brother!"

And then the world capsized again as he was flipped and lowered horizontally. Another set of hands secured his legs and something hard and steady reached up to cradle him above the ground— _a table?_ He wondered, and allowed his head to settle and his weary eyes tried to focus again on the hazy tendrils of sunlight peaking through the leaves above.

A masked face above his…"Are you bitten?" From behind the white paper mask, and a rough hand on his shoulder. "Have you been bitten?" The voice commanded and shook his shoulder again.

Rick coughed and felt the conclusion rack his entire torso. Gloved hands began roughly inspecting his skin while a strong, clamped grip forced him down and into the table. Rick opened his mouth, but the dryness prevented any words once again. He tried to shake his head, but couldn't be sure that his head had even moved. The masked voice rang out above him again as the fingers continued tracing his limbs. "No blood observed, no bites found—load him up and get him to the CP."

"I haven't been bit," Rick tried to whisper, but he could not confirm that he merely _thought_ the words. He tried again, but a steady hand pushed gently down on his chest.

"Easy there, brother. You're going to be alright."

Rick closed his eyes, and for the first time in days, felt like he actually swallowed more than just dust. His mouth arced into a painful grimace, and he cried silent, tearless sobs. He felt himself lifted again, two camouflaged-clad men gently slid him into the back of a dank, cramped vehicle. Musty whiffs of humid air laced with the sweet, putrid hints of rotted flesh and death assailed his senses. Before his eyes could adjust and clear the blurred darkness around him, the doors slammed shut and the angry growl of a strained Diesel engine roared to life behind his head. Muted conversations from an unseen cab carried voices that he struggled to comprehend as the wheels began turning and the bay shuddered and rocked. Beside him, a radio crackled to life.

"Hey you. Dumbass."

 _Glenn?_

"Yeah, you in the tank. Cozy in there?"

Rick swallowed hard against the dry lump in this throat, and rolled his head to look in the direction of the ringing calls, but could only make out vague edges in the darkness.

"Where are you? Outside? Can you see me right now?" He almost couldn't recognize his own voice, and as the darkness pulled at the edge of his vision, he wondered if he spoke the words out loud or simply imagined them within the constant ringing in his ears.

"Yeah, I can see you. You're surrounded. That's the bad news."

"There's good news?" He closed his eyes at the memory pulling him into a debilitating sense of dejavu.

"No, but there's something else. Worse, probably," the radio called.

"Look, Glenn, I don't mind telling you I'm a little concerned in here," Rick choked. "Got any advice for me?"

"Yeah," the Glenn-voice replied. "Stop running."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Rick," the voice stammered. "I gotta go. You're on your own. Good luck, dumbass."

Rick turned and tried to reach for the radio, but his bruised and bloodied hand just scraped against the warm metal clanking around him. He tried to call for his friend, but the words couldn't rise above the scratchiness of his parched throat, and he clawed at the air as he rolled helplessly on the canvas cot.

The cramped metal walls surrounding him slowed their bouncing, and the tires skidded to a stop. Muffled voices rang out, doors clanged, and bolted locks shrieked against their restraints. Bright sunlight flooded the compartment and Rick flinched against the sudden onslaught. He felt himself lifted again, and the voices around him became clearer.

"Doc, DOC! Live one here! Severe dehydration—exhaustion—superficial abrasions, no bites!" Rolling his head back slightly, he could make out the bulky shape of camouflaged armor, ammunition packs, and a face hidden by a large shield. As he tried to focus yet again, the cot stopped bouncing, and he felt himself lowered gently. Two eyes framed by a surgeon's mask and hood came into view, and rubber-gloved fingers traced the wounds on his temple.

"Man, you hit your head pretty good here, my friend," the muffled voice behind the mask observed. The face disappeared and Rick tried to keep up with the movements around him, but a white-hot shot of lightening arose from his right knee and he howled in pain. The voice called out again, "We'll brace that up—significant swelling… doesn't appear broken, but that kneecap might be displaced…" The fingers continued their inspections across his limbs, and he dropped his head back to the cot and stared again at the fingers of light poking dustily through the trees. _So close... if I could just look around, I might be able to recognize the place…_ Another radio roared to life, this one much clearer and sharper than the one he'd been unable to reach in the vehicle.

"Lightening Six, Archangel requesting sitrep."

"Archangel, Lightening Six actual, be advised that eye-seventy five secured between the three-two grid north to the five-one grid. Objective Love secured. Bravo Company is ess-pee at the junction of thirty-two and nineteen-forty, and Alpha Company is pushing north along Highway sixty-eight. We hit a few separate herds that appeared to be converging in the wooded areas north on the sixty-eight—Alpha is in contact but holding—no casualties reported." A lone figure, with his back towards Rick, stood over the radio, the black handset held tightly to his right ear.

"Archangel copies all. Be advised, Fourth Battalion is established at Objective Muddy Bend and report their cee-pee at one-seven sierra, kilo-charlie, niner-niner-one, seven-seven-fife," the speaker rumbled.

"Lightning six copies that location," the man replied as another figure seated beside him gave a thumbs-up after scratching the notes into a dirty green ledger. "Request support from Fourth if able—a counter attack or diversion in-vicinity-of kilo-Charlie four-four-two-six, six-zero-eight-six would pull enough Zekes back and allow Alpha to thin them out a little easier." He clutched a well-worn, wrinkled green map in his left hand that he placed back in front of the seated man after reading the grids.

"Archangel will pass to Omega Six and advise his ee-tic," the handset crackled.

"Lightning Six, out," he replied and offered the handset to the seated individual. "Advise Alpha Six to keep that herd moving north along the sixty-eight, and to keep her forces south of the road—once we know what Omega sends us, coordinate to get them in on the north and east sides to pull the Zekes."

"Roger that, boss."

"And that power output looks like it's dropping off again—can you check the connection on solar panels three and four?"

"On it sir!" The younger man disappeared into the hazy sunlight hanging on the edge of the improvised encampment.

The other man turned slowly and walked towards Rick, who tried without success to make out any details—uniforms, names, facial expressions, but the world still wrapped his vision in the unfocused blur stinging his eyes and frustrating his every thought. The form drew up a haggard-looking chair of some kind and slid closely to him. Rick could make out a thin, bearded face, and dark circles masking very weary eyes.

"Officer Rick Grimes," the voice above him whispered. Noticing the widening of his eyes at the unexpected uttering of his name, the voice continued as the man held up the ragged brown wallet. "Funny, after all that's happened, we still hold on to these things like we're going to need them again some day," he laughed softly. "ID cards, credit cards… pictures—you did good, holdin' on to as much as you did this long, Rick." Noticing the mouth moving without sounds, he placed a steady hand on Rick's shoulder. "Easy, brother. We'll get you what you need—Doc's gonna put an IV in you and get some fluids back in your system."

Rick swallowed hard. He tried to form the words again when a sliver of white-hot pain shot up his left hand. The masked man gripped his battered hand in blue latex gloves and carefully worked the large needle deeper, each movement accompanied by that same lightning bolt that somehow managed to focus his eyes for the first time in what seemed like hours.

"Sorry about that, buddy," breathed the mask near his hand. "We're fresh outta morphine." His hands continuing to work the intravenous drip automatically, he raised his eyes. "What's it been, boss? Two years? Three?" He turned to Rick, deep creases etched around his eyes, belying the smile hidden beneath the faded blue surgical mask. "I can't remember anymore!" He laughed at his own joke, and finished connecting the clear bag of liquid hanging above him to the needle in Rick's hand. With a few twists of valves, a sudden coolness rushed into him, and he leaned his head back against the makeshift bed. "Let me know if you get too cold. Probably feel great on a day like today," the doc laughed again, before turning back to his equipment.

The other soldier—the one the doc kept calling 'boss,' sat down across from Rick, who continued to stare up at the hazy sunlight casting beams through the canopy of leaves above them.

"I'm sorry we didn't get here sooner," he whispered. "You look like you've been through a lot." He leaned back and shook his head, somewhat embarrassed by the understatements carried in his words. He leaned back and exhaled deeply, almost as if he tried to cast aside the weight and exhaustion from his haggard shoulders. Raising his eyes to the same beams of light that held Rick's gaze, he continued. "We've fought our way across the country. Thought it would get better as we pushed east… maybe it did in some places. But once we started pushing up through Kentucky and into this area, man…" his voice trailed off, and he leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "You haven't been _alone_ this whole time, have you?"

Rick felt a sudden flush of energy wash over him as the saline solution began attacking his severe dehydration. The dryness in his throat began to subside, and each attempt to swallow carried a little less pain and effort than the time before. Blinking his eyes into focus, he sat up slowly, every muscle across his gut and back complaining with sharp and shooting reports that drew an involuntary groan from his chest. Even as the coolness spread, every joint burned with a fury that he swore he handn't known since his earliest days of indoctrination to the force. He shook his head slowly, solemnly. The soldier across from him looked up suddenly with the movement.

"Take 'er easy, Rick. That IV will lie to you and convince you to get moving before you're ready"

His eyes and senses beginning to function again, Rick noticed the distinctive military uniform and hardware strapped to the man's chest. With every piece of equipment meticulously maintained and placed, he was clearly a professional soldier. The faded camouflage patterns on the uniform spoke to the experiences he had obviously endured. He met the man's eyes and held his gaze.

"I don't know what exactly you've been through, Rick," he began. "I don't know what you had to do to survive, or how many loved ones you lost." Rick's eyes fell involuntarily in response to the words. "We'll talk about it when you're ready. But for now, it's over—we'll take care of you." He turned and picked up a worn and wrinkled map. "I don't know how you did it out here—I'm a desert boy, myself, and that's where we were when this started. The desert—the plains—it wasn't too hard to keep tabs on the dead out there. Cities were a different case, of course, but here…". He looked up from the map. "We've seen some bad days since about the time we hit eastern Oklahoma and Arkansas—just can't see the bastards until they're right on you with the terrain. Too many damned trees…"

Rick barely heard the comforting words as another wave of relieving energy circulated through his body. He opened his mouth slowly, still not trusting his crackling voice, and tried to put sound to his words. "Can I ask you something?" He whispered weakly.

"Of course," the soldier replied.

"How many walkers have you killed?"

"Put your mask on, kid," the deep voice boomed.

Standing literally in the shadow of the large man to her right, the young woman shook her head sheepishly and reached for the plastic shield resting atop her helmet.

"I'll piss myself the day I don't have to wear this damned thing anymore," she grumbled.

"That little piece of plastic has saved your life more times than I care to count," he countered. "Maybe if you put a little personal-ee-za-shun on that thing you'd like it more. Maybe some pretty pink flowers or a butterfly," he suggested playfully. His partner groaned.

"Yeah, right. 'Cause that's me. All girly-girl and shit."

"Who knows? Might put you in touch with your softer side!"

She lowered her eyes and glared with a clear case of annoyance, hoping the pure force of her gaze might make the larger man cease his ribbing. "Waitin' on you, chief," she hissed. "But so help me, if you say it again, I'm gonna bust you right in the gut."

"You know it's coming," he laughed.

"Just like every goddamned time you've put that damned thing on," she complained. "Just get it over with."

He laughed deeply in his bellowing, booming voice, and pulled the black mask from his own helmet. "Luke, I am your father!"

"Sonofabitch," the woman moaned. "That's not even the right fucking line!" He ignored her comment and extended his hand.

"Join me, and together we will cleanse this earth of the rotting corpses of the walking dead!" He laughed again as he affixed a pair of goggles over the face shield before cocking his head in her direction. "What do you mean it's not the right line?"

"That's not what he said in the movie."

"Like hell it ain't, kid. That's THE most famous line in all of cinematic history!"

"And every nerd gets it wrong when they quote it."

"Hey now, sergeant—do not be hatin' on the Star Wars!"

"Not hatin' chief. Just pointing out that you got the quote wrong. Again." She lowered her own goggles and turned her attention towards the black assault rifle hanging across her chest.

"Alright, kid… got it. Lock and load," he commanded as he ripped the charging handle back on his own weapon.

"Locked and loaded… I'm red for the dead," she spat. "What was this, a hospital?"

"Looks like it—hard to tell with all the growth that's coverin' it now."

"We're not clearing this thing by ourselves, our we?" She questioned, drawing her eyes forward to the large building before them. "That's two stories above the ground level!"

"Hell no, we're just expanding the perimeter—boss wants us to get an idea of what's around our area. We'll go up and just look inside quickly—if it's ugly, we'll come back with the full squad and clear it properly." He looked down at the smaller figure beside him, her rifle now raised to the sky and cradled in one hand. Frowning behind the mask now covering his face, he admonished her. "Now don't get cocky, kid—as much as we've been through, keep it on the level—stay in your lane the way you been trained!"

"I got you, chief—I'm on my game," she replied, bringing the weapon back to a ready position steadied by both hands.

"Good, let's see what we've got up there." Their boots crunched softly in the years of undergrowth that had reclaimed the grounds. Stopping for a moment, the man pointed to the remnants of a cracked and faded sign. "There's your answer, kid. Harrison Memorial Hospital."

The commander sat back and folded his hands behind his head. _That's a pretty simple question,_ he considered.

 _So why isn't it easier to answer?_

He considered the frail and broken man before him. Sweat had matted his hair and his tattered clothing. Salt stains ringed the shirt that hung from his shoulders loosely. Even the belt that housed the hand-cannon on his hip showed the clear signs that he had punched new holes to accommodate a constantly slimming frame. Blood matted near the contusions on his face and had congealed darkly in spots across his greying beard. The question had come easily to him— _how many times has he asked that?_ The simple query resurrected memories he'd thought long since abandoned, and a weak smile pulled at the edges of his lips.

"Walkers," he began. "Is that what you call them?" He looked Rick in the eyes again, seeking to capture his gaze and attention once again. Maybe a few answers to his own questions lay in the subtle responses to his counter-queries.

"Yeah," the dry, gravely voice cracked. "Walkers. Just seemed to pick it up a long time ago." His eyes rose to capture the gaze. "What do you call them?"

The commander laughed softly. "We call them Zekes. Z for zombie—just picked out a name that started with Z. One guy early on wanted to call them Zach, but someone else had lost a brother with that name, so we just settled on Zeke." His eyes softened slightly. "Made sense at the time."

"How many?" Rick croaked unevenly.

He sat back again and exhaled forcefully. "Shit, man. To be honest I've lost count," he exclaimed, more thoughtfully than explanatory, before trailing into a whisper as he offered, "I wish I had kept count—I think it'll be important someday…" A heavy silence descended between the two, and the commander stood and paced towards the radio set that had gone silent. With his back to Rick, he looked again to the sky, deep in thought. The memories swept over him with an unexpected emotion that threatened to buckle his knees, and he regretted standing. Pulling at a lighter recollection, he folded his arms and turned back towards Rick.

"We had a guy with us early on—smart kid—you know, the type that's good with numbers, formulas, algorithms… shit like that." He smiled, remembering the night clearly when that young man had first presented his theory. "He managed to calculate how many Zekes we had to put down each month—'to win the war,' he said…" he laughed softly in recollection. "Ten per month, per person, he said. That's what we had to do to win. The good news was, or is, that's not too impossible a task." His voice dropped, and his tone sobered. "The bad news is, his formula said that this was a twenty-five year war…". His eyes dropped slightly. "I'm sorry, Rick. I don't have a number for you. It's more than I ever wished I had to, but not enough to fight our way out of this. It's not enough to bring back the ones I lost, and I'm sure it won't bring back those you lost." He looked away.

"Ten per month, per person, minimum," he repeated. "That's what I asked my troops to do. That's what we've tried to do."

Rick nodded in recognizing acknowledgment, and the next query spilled from his cracked lips almost automatically. "How many people have you killed?"

"I stopped counting after the first fight," he whispered.

Rick locked eyes and allowed the silence to hang heavily between them. "Why?"

The soldier sighed, and slumped back into his ragged folding chair. "When this all went down, I guess I wasn't expecting the way so many people responded. I was shocked. I was angry. I didn't go into this intending to fight the living as well as the dead. But that's what we had to do. The dead became just another force of nature to deal with—they were everywhere, and they were a constant threat, but not like some of the survivors we found…" he trailed off again. "I guess we found out what human nature really is, once and for all…".

The coolness continued to spread through Rick's body, and he began to shiver beneath the hot, humid, and heavy air that surrounded him. He closed his eyes, and slowly laid back down on the filthy mattress. A single tear escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek, dragging a distinct line through the mud baked into his skin.

The smell hit his nose as soon as the double doors had swung open; a rancid mixture of putrid rot and pungent mildew wafted up beneath the plastic shield, and he winced.

"That's death," she whispered, the black rifle high and plugged firmly against her cheek as the weapon arced carefully, matching her gaze down the dimly-lit hallway.

"It is," he agreed. "Not as bad as we've seen it. They're here, but not too bad." He drew a slow and deliberate waft into his nose and kept his own weapon leveled before him. "That dankness though…" he considered. "Smells like that door hasn't been open in years."

"We going in?" She asked, a tinge of nervousness catching the edges of her words.

"Just to the end of the hall," he whispered. We'll check that area—we've got a direct line of egress and there shouldn't be a way for Zeke to sneak up behind us. Let's see what's down there in each direction, then report back."

"Roger that, chief," she whispered. Their boots moved in unison, their hips nearly glued together as they moved down the hallway.

Softly turning the door handles as they passed, the man stopped and whispered to the woman beside him. "What was the quote?"

"What?" She hissed annoyed.

"You said I got the quote wrong. What was it?" He asked in hushed tones as he jiggled another locked handle.

"Now? You want to know now?" She spat quietly. "What happened to staying focused? What happened to 'don't get cocky, kid?'" she deadpanned in a mockingly deep voice.

"Free your mind and let your eyes do their job," he replied. "What was the quote?"

"He fucking said, 'no—I am your father.' I don't know why everyone always fucks that up," she whispered.

"Good. What do you think?"

"What, about your bullshit lack of movie-quote knowledge?"

"No, about the air—does it smell worse?"

"No, about the same," she observed.

"I agree. I think we're alright here."

"I don't like it—just the two of us in a building this big."

"Don't worry kid, just a few more steps—if Zeke was here, he'd have popped out to tell you that you're really a closet Star Wars fan," he laughed softly.

"Bullshit," she retorted. "I just can't stand it when you keep butchering quotes."

Reaching the break in the hallway, they parted slightly and turned their weapons in opposite directions. The woman's hand slid forward on her rifle and activated the flashlight near the muzzle. "Clear right," he huffed, expecting a similar clear call from his left side.

"Chief, look at this," she whispered.

"Six is clear," he breathed, and slowly swung the beam of his own light to match hers. At the end of the hallway, a pair of double-doors were held shut by a rusted chain, and the rotted remnants of what appeared to be an old plank rested between the handles of the sealed portal.

"Don't dead, open inside?" She asked, confused by the cryptic words scrawled across the doors.

"I think you're supposed to read each door individually," the man whispered. "Don't open, dead inside."

"Should've made it clearer," she retorted.

"I guess that answers the question on where the smell is coming from," he offered.

"Think they're still… _in there?_ "

Almost before her words finished falling softly from her mouth, she noticed a slight movement at the base of the doors, and dropped the beam of light to shine on the slight space between the two panels. At first, she thought a couple of sticks protruded from the small gap, but as both beams of light met, she saw that the 'stick' was a bony finger held together by small, slick strings of tendons that continued to flex the bones slowly.

"My god," he breathed slowly.

"How long do you think they've been in there?"

"Judging by the look of that chain and wood, I'd say since about the time this whole thing went down." Leaving his rifle leveled at the door, he began shuffling back towards the main hallway. "Back out, kid, we're done here for now."

"Right with you, chief."

As their lights faded, more sickly sticks began poking through the small space between the doors, which began slowly pulsing against the weight pushing from behind the chains. Their boots clumped noisily as they began moving quickly towards the exit, a guttural moaning steadily rising to match the echoing footfalls, continuing long after the sharp reports of the boots on pavement faded into the chattering softness of a warm southern breeze rustling leaves.

Coming soon: The Walking Dead: Resurrection

(A fan-fiction).

When there was no plan _, they_ became **the** plan.

Society had begun to crumble. A massive panic began to sweep through every human endeavor and thought. Safe zones and refugee centers became breeding grounds for insurgency and insolvency. Hope became despair, and despair became a primitive panic that set the world ablaze in chaos.

At a major military installation in the south-western United States, an unthinkable order is handed down in a last-ditch attempt to curtail the pending pandemic:

 _Incinerate the plague._

 _Save humanity by setting civilization aflame._

Caught between an impossible order and an unfathomable reality, a group of warriors, public servants, and their families find a calling to serve rather than simply survive.

This is their story.


End file.
